Snapshots
by windscryer
Summary: A series of baby ficlets that capture the little moments in life that don't always make it to the screen. A 100 Themes Challenge. Warnings/pairings/etc in chapter notes.
1. Prompt 8 Innocence

Okay, so quick primer for anyone who does NOT know what a '100 Themes Challenge' is:

You are given a list of one hundred words/phrases. You take each one and make something of it relating to the appropriate fandom. It can be art, or fic, or anything really. I chose fic (obviously or this would be on LJ. :D).

I was planning to be excessively masochistic and make them all 100 words in length. But then I wrote the first chapter and . . . yeah. I couldn't bear to cut it down. :D

Also, most of them are standalone, though some of them are vaguely/not so vaguely connected. This will also be noted in chapter notes.

P.S. This challenge list came from the 100 Themes deviantART community. Variation 1, I believe. I'm not doing them in order, thus the number annotation is the prompt number on the list.

Oh and Psych is mine and does not belong to the USA Network and Steve Franks.

No, wait. Switch that. ;D

**WARNINGS:** Tear jerker. Possibly. *shrug* I dunno. It's kinda sad. We'll go with it. :D

* * *

She wants him to knock on her door. She doubts he will, knows he doesn't let anyone see the part of him that feels anything but joy and, on occasion, anger.

But still she wants it.

She'd even take a phone call, something to show that he's not alone tonight.

It wasn't his fault. It wasn't anyone's fault but the murderer now sitting behind bars awaiting trial.

He blames himself.

It happens to every cop, this loss, and even though he's not technically a cop, he is where it counts.

It's not a word many would use to describe Shawn Spencer.

And after today, after the loss of a little girl he couldn't save, it's not one that can be used anymore.

* * *

Review plz&thx.


	2. Prompt 44 Two Roads

Pairings: Shules, blink-and-miss Lolly

* * *

This isn't the first time he's been here.

It's actually a frequent stop for him.

One might think that his experience would give him an edge, some kind of inside track or special intuition that would tell him what to do when he gets here, but alas fate is not so kind.

Sometimes he makes a list like his dad showed him, though he'd never admit it aloud or show anyone. And when it's done all the evidence is destroyed.

Sometimes he goes with the old clichéd coin toss. Sometimes he even does what the coin says.

Sometimes he does as Robert Frost said and chooses the one that's overgrown and barely there, just because a path is meant to be walked and he never wants to be known for taking the easy way.

And sometimes, every once in a while, he just closes his eyes, points a finger and says, "That one!"

He won't deny that his system isn't perfect. He's found too many times that his choice could have been more carefully selected.

Today is a perfect example of that.

This is not a choice to be made lightly. Each side must be weighed and measured. No coins being tossed, no eeny-meeny-miney-moe, not poems about forests, not even a pros and cons list can help him here.

He's well aware of all that hangs in the balance and that if he makes the wrong one it will stay with him for the rest of his life, however long or short that may be.

And now he's come to the realization that not choosing, that stalling, is just as bad as the wrong choice. His time is up.

"The blue one."

Juliet cocks an eyebrow.

"Really? Are you sure? Are you absolutely positive? Because the red one-"

"Jules," he interrupts. "Trust me. The blue one."

"Okay," she says. "If you're sure."

"Positive," he says with the confidence in his tone that he doesn't feel in his gut. His expression is neutral but inside he's praying this isn't going to blow up in his face.

She gives both blue and red another considering look. "I don't know. I feel better about the red one."

"Would it help if I told you that it brings out the color of your eyes?"

She looks up. "Really?"

"Really. And I _love_ what it does to your hips."

She smiles. "All right then. I'll wear the blue one." She disappears into the bathroom to change and he exhales in relief and looks at himself in the mirror again, tweaking his bow-tie and trying to remember why exactly he talked Lassie and Polly out of eloping to Vegas.

One of these days he'll learn to keep his big mouth shut.

* * *

Review plz&thx.


	3. Prompt 5 Seeking Solace

**WARNING:** Tear jerker. Same as chapter 1. Not sure. Going with better safe than sorry.

This is a sequel of sorts to #8 Innocence.

As to who the 'she' is . . . I'm gonna leave that to you. My betas came up with quite a few possibles. :D

* * *

He stands on her doorstep and stares at the festive wreath framing the knocker.

It seems out of place considering what happened that day.

He's not entirely sure how he got here and he's really pretty sure he should leave.

But he can't.

His legs refuse to obey and somehow that's not as distressing as he'd expect.

Because even though she's the last person he wants to see right now he's also pretty sure that she's the one he needs to see most.

He's debating whether to knock or ring the doorbell when the door is opened and it becomes academic.

She doesn't say anything and for that he's glad.

He's not sure he can handle words right now.

Instead she extends a hand to him in invitation.

He stares at it for a moment, thinking of his own hands, the blood that still stains them even though he washed them for at least an hour after it was over.

How can he touch her clean hand with his filthy one?

Then she does speak and he looks up in surprise. He doesn't know if it's her tone, or the fact that all she says is his name, but somehow it doesn't hurt like he expected.

She meets his gaze steadily and when he realizes that it's not pity, not condemnation, or revulsion in her eyes, nothing but understanding and compassion, the tension washes out of his body like a reservoir after the dam has broken.

His shoulders slump and when she comes a step closer and takes his hand he doesn't resist.

She leads him into the house, into a cozy living room where a fire is burning low in the hearth and a pot of tea—in an actual teapot wrapped in an actual knitted tea cozy, no less—sits on a table with two cups, filled to the brim with something brown and creamy that faintly steams.

He stares at the second cup of hot chocolate and wonders who exactly is supposed to be the psychic here while she shuts the door and then returns to his side.

He turns his head to look at her, searching her gaze once more, and once more he finds no trace of pity or disgust. Just sympathy, pure and clean.

And that is all that he needs.

Her arms come around him as he lets his head drop to rest on her shoulder and the tears come pouring out.

She says nothing, just holds him until the tears run dry and he has found what he came here for.

When he is asleep on the couch, covered in the quilt her grandmother hand-stitched for her before she left home, she banks the fire and cleans up the dishes.

She returns with a second blanket and curls up on the loveseat, making herself comfortable for the long vigil that will last until dawn.

* * *

Review plz&thx.


	4. Prompt 42 Standing Still

She's never been good at this.

Never.

She never saw the point, really.

But today is different. She still doesn't see the point of it most of the time, but in this moment it makes perfect sense.

Right here and right now it's an integral part of the ceremony, the ritual that she's come to perform.

And if she manages it, if she can finally get it right, then everything will come together.

She's so nervous. That's not something she's used to either.

Her palms are sweaty, her knees want to tremble.

She wipes the former and locks the latter, then remembers what she was told.

Lock her knees and she'll pass out and not only will she embarrass herself but she'll probably end up dead.

So she forces them to bend, just slightly, just enough to allow blood flow and keep her conscious.

She concentrates on her breathing and finds the steady rhythm she was taught.

In-two-three-four-five-six-seven.

Out-two-three-four-five-six-seven.

Hold-two-three-four-five-six-seven.

Her breath stills in her lungs as her muscles in her legs and arms do the same and her gaze shifts from the sight all the way to the silhouette down range.

She has found perfection, has accomplished the impossible.

She squeezes her finger and lets the kickback surprise her as the world explodes in sound.

When she finally takes in a breath, counting all the way, she sees the hole that has appeared at the center of her target's heart.

And she smiles.

* * *

Review plz&thx.


	5. Prompt 61 Fairytale

Pairing: SHULES!

* * *

Life is a contradiction.

She knows this.

This is one that she finds especially amusing though—at least right now.

When she was a little girl she dreamed of it just like the books and movies told her to.

_Someday my prince will come. A dream is a wish your heart makes._

When she grew up and left home she was told the opposite.

_It never happens. It's all a lie._

She never knew what to believe.

Until now.

As she takes that final step, as she turns her head to smile at her prince, she knows that the stories in her childhood were right.

It _is_ just as magical and glorious as they said.

And it's all hers.

He links his arm through hers and bends down to whisper in her ear.

"Did I keep my promise?"

Her smile widens, though she keeps her eyes on the minister standing before her and her voice low.

"I wasn't actually expecting the swans."

His grin turns mischievous. "Neither were the caterers. But I did promise."

She has to bite her lip to keep from laughing.

"Yes, you did." Now she looks away and meets his gaze. "Thank you."

His hand on her arm briefly squeezes and his expression is quite serious when he says softly, "You're worth it."

She completely believes him.

And that is why she's sure they'll live happily ever after.

* * *

Review plz&thx.


	6. Prompt 9 Drive

One hand on the gear shift, the other on the steering wheel, he glanced in the passenger side mirror and then yanked the wheel, executing a neat slide into the left lane.

The driver of the car behind him—which he cleared by at least six inches—felt the need to slam on the brakes, thus opening up a slot for the dark blue sedan that was currently in pursuit.

A muscle ticked in his jaw, annoyance flaring, but he covered it up with a manic grin.

"Everybody buckled up?" he asked, his eyes flicking over the dash to make sure his speed and RPMs were where he needed them.

He heard a whimper from the back that could only be Gus, a shaky sort of a squeak that was Juliet, and from the passenger seat there was a gurgling sound of both fury and terror that was most definitely Lassie.

"Good!" he said.

The gears ground together as he not so smoothly shifted into reverse and then released the stick to put both hands on the wheel. It protested the turn as the tires screamed and smoke curled off the pavement, but with the addition of his full weight on the gas pedal, the police-issued vehicle was powerless to resist and in true Hollywood-style, blood and adrenalin racing through his veins, they slid through the break in the median with inches to spare as they swung around to face the opposite direction.

As soon as they were oriented correctly his hand was back on the stick, his feet manipulating the pedals as they leapt forward, more smoke and burning rubber left behind on the asphalt.

Their tail hadn't made the turn, hadn't even had time to anticipate the move, and so was still headed southbound.

There was another turn around in half a mile which meant that it wouldn't be more than a few seconds before the chase was back on.

Shawn couldn't help laughing as he shifted into fifth, smoothly this time and without even a hint of grinding, and floored the accelerator, a thrum of pleasure racing through his veins at the accompanying roar of the engine. A few seconds would give him just enough time to get a lead that their tail would have a hard time overcoming.

It would take at least eight minutes by his math and by then they should just be pulling up in front of the station.

He took a moment to glance over at Lassie and saw that there wasn't an ounce of blood in the other man's face and his fingers would more than likely leave permanent dents in the handle and seat where they gripped for dear life.

"I told you they weren't going to catch us," he couldn't resist pointing out.

There was a moment of silence.

"O'Hara," Lassiter finally said quietly. "Remind me I need to have his license revoked."

"Yes, sir," Juliet replied in a voice that was just as soft.

Shawn just laughed and shifted into sixth.

* * *

This was inspired by the bio for Shawn on the USA site where he says his secret ability or something is antiterrorist driving. Couldn't resist when I saw this prompt. :D

(BTW, plz don't try this at home. I fudged some of the details of that move and I don't want any of you getting ouchies.)

Review plz&thx.


	7. Prompt 10 Breathe Again

Pairing: SHULES AGAIN! YAYZ!

I realize there are conflicts here with another of the Snapshots already published. Reconcile that how you will. I think of it as only two of many possibilities. :D

* * *

The organist plays the first commanding strains of the march and he obeys the cue to turn.

He knows what her dress will look like, despite her valiant attempts to conceal it from him, he's seen it already.

He's quite familiar with her body, at least the clothed version of it. She turned out to be surprisingly old-fashioned about that during their dating and engagement and he's even more surprised by how easily he accepted that. He has a feeling the wait will be more than worth it.

With his eidetic memory he's more than familiar with her face, every inch of her skin, her lips, her eyes, her nose, and most especially the way it all comes together into perfection.

Her hair he saw that morning, already done up in the style now crowned by the veil.

But even though he knows the parts, the whole before him is so much more than he could have expected.

He's knocked breathless, a kick to his chest that's left him unable to even gasp for air.

She makes her way down the aisle, her arm linked through her father's, and he's silently willing the organist to play faster.

He's not sure he'll still be conscious by the time she arrives at his side at this rate.

Somehow he manages to hold on, though he's not at all sure how.

Then she's there and she's smiling at him and he can't stop staring. His mouth isn't hanging open—he doesn't think—but he's frozen, unable to even process something as simple as involuntary muscle control, let alone voluntary.

Gus lightly nudges him with a well placed elbow and that somehow restores his ability to think and move.

He lifts his arm and she lets go of her father, brushing a kiss on his cheek before turning and linking her arm with Shawn's.

He has to say something, he knows he does, and so he inhales because he also knows that he hasn't done that in a while and it's an integral part of speech, the air moving in and out of his lungs.

He has no idea what he's going to say; he hasn't quite gotten that far yet.

But as the scent of her perfume fills his sinuses, the debate is suddenly academic.

"You smell like pineapple," he murmurs.

She just grins and he can't help but grin back.

"I love you."

* * *

Review plz&thx.


	8. Prompt 81 Pen and Paper

Pairing: Mild Shules (Yes, again.)

* * *

His parents have always had different ways of doing things.

He often wondered how they managed to get together but he's never wondered why they split up. He can only assume that the saying was true: "Opposites attract, then drive each other nuts."

What confuses him most was that they had the same goals. It was just the ways of getting there that varied.

Take for instance his keen eye and remarkable memory.

His father played 'How Many Hats' until Shawn wanted to scream.

His mother enrolled him in an art class.

Like everything else in his life, it's easy for him to be good at it.

In the course of the twelve weeks that summer of his eleventh year they covered everything, from sketching to painting to sculpting.

He enjoyed them all but the only one he still does with any regularity is the sketching.

When he's rushed his subjects are recognizable, but when he takes the time to do it right it's almost photographic.

He's found a lot of time recently to do it right, but with a subject like her that's hardly a surprise.

She has no idea, of course, that her likeness fills the pages of several recently purchased sketchbooks. He teased her once about needing a model, but she laughed and walked away and he let her.

That's the beauty of an eidetic memory though.

She doesn't have to be present for him to recreate her unique brand of perfection in ink on paper.

Someday—when he's not such a coward and she's not so quick to turn down an invitation to dinner—he thinks maybe he'll show her what he does with his spare time.

* * *

Review plz&thx.


	9. Prompt 85 Spiral

Because the idea of Shawn and sketching and Juliet wouldn't leave my head.

And because Shawn said that when he wasn't a coward he'd show Juliet his sketches. My Muse and I decided that it would never happen if left up to him. So we took matters into our own hands.

Heh heh heh... :D

* * *

She just came by to tell him that he was right. They'd found the evidence exactly where he said they would.

That she could have done such a thing over the phone was a fact she chose to ignore. That she was finding more and more excuses to seek him out was a truth she buried in a corner of her mind. She didn't have to deal with what she didn't think about.

He's not here. She knows that immediately since both Gus' blue car and his Norton are missing. But the lights are still on inside so someone is bound to come back. And Gus has a date tonight so it's probably not him.

Deciding that waiting inside on a rainy night makes just as much—or more—sense than sitting in her car, she readies her umbrella and opens her door, the protective shield popping open with a quick and practiced move on her part. She lets herself in the unlocked door, smiling ruefully as she shakes her head.

Gus is definitely not coming back. Shawn wouldn't dare leave the door unlocked if there was a chance his best friend might find out about it. And since he cares about his TV still being here when he returns it's obvious he only braved the monsoon of a storm for a quick dinner run. Which means she doesn't have long to wait. She gives the comfy chairs a glance, but decides not to take them up on the invitation to sit.

A chance to look around is too tempting to pass up.

Gus' desk is neat and organized and completely Gus. She'd bet he even has files in actual folders inside the cabinet, though whether they're sorted alphabetically or by some other system she can't be sure. Shawn's desk is just as representative of the owner though it's at the opposite end of the spectrum on the 'clean and organized' scale. She smiles and thinks that probably doesn't make a difference in how quickly something can be found by the respective owners.

She's just about to end her quick survey and take a seat before Shawn returns, when something on his desk catches her eye. There's a spiral bound notebook, one that she realizes she's seen before. Funny how she never really thought about it, but now that she has, it occurs to her that she's seen it quite often.

She glances towards the window, but the strobe of lights is only from a passing car and curiosity is nibbling away at her. So with a silent apology for snooping she picks it up and flips back the cover.

And inhales sharply, completely taken by surprise.

It's her. It's a candid moment, one in which she thought she was unobserved, but the detail and accuracy of the sketch make it easy for her to recall the heart beat of time remembered in the gentle sweeps of black ink.

She flips the page and her eyes race over the paper again before she goes on to the next one. Page after page after page is filled with her.

Happy, sad, laughing, scowling, bored, amused, smug, unsure... it's filled with her, stolen moments of time displayed here in this simple spiral notebook. The skill takes her breath away and the detail leaves her amazed.

She reaches the end and is disappointed to find a few empty pages. Until her eyes stray down to the desk before her.

Another furtive glance towards the front window to confirm there are no approaching motorcycle headlights and she sets the notebook down and pulls open a drawer. There's a stack of magazines—sports, bikes, and video games, nothing surprising there—but her gut tells her that's just a convenient cover. She pulls them out and is rewarded by vindication. Beneath the stack of glossy publications there are more notebooks.

Her eyes widen when she realizes how many. In a drawer that's at least eight inches deep she finds six of them are the spiral bound notebooks.

She's forgotten that she'll have company in the office soon and settles down in the chair to see if she's got company in the notebooks.

Half an hour later she's still silently flipping through.

She's not the only subject. There's a couple of Gus. A few of Karen, and even some of Lassiter and Henry.

By this time she's come to see that his style of drawing conveys more than his skill and attention to detail. The very pen strokes reveal his emotions about his subject in the moment of frozen time.

Gus is most often drawn in light, easy lines, vaguely cartoonish, though the resemblance is still uncanny. Lassiter is either amusing caricature or short, quick lines that seem to indicate annoyance. Henry is mostly done in thick, angry lines, the frustration clear in the deep indentations. Karen is clear, no nonsense lines, no extra feathers of wasted ink. It gives her drawings a feeling of respect and understanding.

Her own pictures, by far the most numerous of the lot, are all soft lines, flowing shapes. There's a filter there, between her and her heretofore unknown observer. She's not quite sure what it means.

The sudden crinkle of plastic makes her jump and nearly tumble out of the chair as her eyes shoot up in panic to see Shawn standing in the back doorway, dripping wet from his ride in the rain.

Their eyes meet and she finds her tongue has gone numb, her brain unwilling or unable to respond to her frantic commands to do something, say something.

"I stopped by the station," he said. "Thought I'd see if you were still there and hungry," he adds and lifts the bag. She can see now that it's full of little white boxes with bright red writing on the side. He brought her Chinese.

She opens her mouth, then shuts it, still completely at a loss for words. He just walks past and sets the bag on the table, then moves to shrug out of his jacket and hang it up to dry. He returns to the food and drops into one of the chairs and starts pulling things out.

She's still sitting at his desk, notebook in hand, guilty expression on her face, and not a thing in her brain beyond panic at how he'll react to her invasion of his privacy.

He nods to the other chair as he breaks his chopsticks and rolls them between his hands a few times. "You're welcome to join me."

He's being oddly formal about all of this, not at all like the Shawn she's familiar with, and in that moment it hits her that she's not the only one uncomfortable right now and uncertain how to act. Her realization is what gives her the courage to stand and walk over to the chair and sit down.

He hands her chopsticks and a box that she can already smell is her favorite, the #12 with shrimp. They eat in silence for a few minutes before she speaks, surprising them both.

"When you said that you drew, that you sometimes needed a model, I didn't think..." But her courage runs out before she's done and she hurries to stuff another mouthful of noodles and shrimp in to fill the gap.

He arches an eyebrow, a faint smile curving his lips. "That I was serious?" he finishes.

She just works on thoroughly chewing her food.

He laughs, hesitantly and self-consciously, and she forgets to take another bite.

"Yeah," he says quietly, "me neither."

"You're very good," she says. It's inane and she can't believe she said something that pathetic.

Then he smiles, a shy, uncertain thing.

"Really?" he asks, the vulnerability in his voice completely genuine and all the more potent for it.

She feels herself slip, actually feels herself slide down the slope towards what she can only guess is a mistake, but she can't stop herself and she doesn't seem to care.

"I just..." he says, but trails off and pokes at his moo goo gai pan.

His lack of courage seems to bolster hers and before she can stop herself she's saying, "If you'd still like a model—not that you need one obviously... I mean, you _have_ a model, and, well, I guess that's me, so this whole discussion is stupid and..." Before she loses her courage and coherent thought completely she blurts out, "I'm just saying that I'd be willing to do a sitting. Or whatever it's called."

She looks up to find his familiar, sardonic grin back in place.

"I don't know. I think I like our current arrangement."

* * *

Okay, who has a toothache now from that sappy pile of pure, fluffy sugar? I know I do! :D

Review plz&thx.


	10. Prompt 91 Drowning

Because this was not intended to be a 100 Themes Shules Challenge, I'm mixing it up a bit.

Therefore I present to you: LASSIE-FACE!

* * *

Once upon a time he was told that he had kind eyes.

She seemed like a nice enough girl, though the fact that she might have been a killer put him off from really paying attention.

Once upon another time he was told he had eyes women wanted to do cannonballs into.

Okay, that came from Spencer which sort of negates it, except a blind man could see that Shawn knows a thing or two more than him about what women think. And it has nothing to do with being psychic, either.

But right now, in this moment, he can't help but wonder if Shawn wasn't being as facetious as it first seemed.

Because right now, in this moment, he's meeting the gaze of a woman who just might be thinking that same thing.

What's even worse is that she's not the only one.

* * *

Who is thinking of Lassie's eyes as the perfect cannonball pool? I have no idea. You pick. :D

(Okay, I have an idea... but since I'm sure the number of Lassie/Polly shippers out there can prolly be counted on one or two fingers... I left it open for interpretation. Go nuts. XD)


	11. Prompt 98 Puzzle

And we're back to the Shules. Vaguely anyway.

I held off as long as I could. I swear. :D

* * *

She was always good at them as a child. It's part of the reason she wanted to become a detective.

She loved the thrill of the hunt, the way you had to stalk the answer relentlessly until you could tackle it and wrestle it to the ground. There was only one she never could solve: She cheated as a child and moved the stickers on her Rubik's cube.

She still feels guilty over that.

And now she's found another one just like it, a seemingly unsolvable test of her wits and her patience. What was the old saying? A puzzle inside a riddle wrapped in an enigma... Something like that, she's sure.

It fits him perfectly.

He is her own personal Rubik's cube. But she's determined this time.

This time she will prevail.

* * *

Review, please and thanks!


	12. Prompt 97 Safety First

There are times he wishes he really was psychic.

Mostly when a particularly difficult case is kicking his butt or when he catches Juliet giving him that _Look_ that makes her blush and look away when she realizes he's seen it. He'd _love_ to be psychic then.

Or any time he asks her out in a joking-but-not-really kind of way and she rejects him in a like manner. Or when he sees her staring at her clean desk and chewing on her lip, deep in concentration. Or—

Okay, he'd like to be psychic pretty much all of the time where Juliet is concerned.

But right now, as he enters the kitchen of his childhood and sees his dad sitting at the kitchen table with a rag wrapped around his hand that is slowly turning red, he's glad he's not.

It doesn't take a psychic to tell what happened. Not even super observational skills are required.

The bloody knife in the sink, the half cut bagel with a splash of red soaking into it on the cutting board, and the annoyance that is quite obviously directed internally spell out the 'what' pretty clearly.

The 'why', on the other hand is a mystery, and one that he's pretty sure he _never_ wants to solve.

* * *

This is based on a rather amusing true story involving my sister and a half frozen English muffin. She graciously allowed me to adapt it to my own devious needs. Thanks Lily! :D

Review, please and thanks!


	13. Prompt 76 Broken Pieces

A little Shules to brighten things up. YAYZ FOR SHULES! :D

* * *

He's a good friend.

(The best she's ever had.)

She knows he wants more.

(She's tried to pretend she doesn't.)

It wasn't easy until she found someone she thought could take the place he wanted.

(She still doesn't know if she really was trying to replace him or if she just wanted to make him jealous.)

She thinks she might have accomplished both—for a little while at least. But now her replacement is gone.

(She didn't think it would hurt like this.)

_He's_ still there, though. And right now that's more of a comfort than she could have imagined.

Maybe she should stop pretending._ He_ would never hurt her like this.

(That's something else she knows.)

* * *

WOOT! Luv the Shules. Did I mention that yet? LOVE THE SHULES!

Review, please and thanks!


	14. Prompt 56 Danger Ahead

Uh yeah, more Shules. You're shocked, I know. Try to breathe deeply and if necessary put your head between your knees and it will pass. :D

* * *

He met her in a diner. She stole his chair and his heart.

And when her hand shook as she held her gun, he knew there was more to the story than his 'psychic' powers would tell him.

He thinks that's when he really fell in love.

But she's not going to be as easy a conquest as most. That is blatantly obvious from the way she neatly deflects all of his most charming attempts to get under her skin.

He's broken a few hearts in his time. He tries not to, but it doesn't always work.

He thinks that maybe this time he's the one who should beware.

But that doesn't stop him.

* * *

Review, please and thanks!


	15. Prompt 79 Starvation

This is no more Shulesy than the show is. And it's kind of blink and miss at that. But it is very angsty.

And there is no more. Not right now anyway.

But maybe that will change... Reviewing is the best way to make that happen!

* * *

It's been seven days. He thinks it has anyway. If his math is correct.

At this point that's becoming less likely, but he really does think he's right on this one.

Seven days since he's seen sunlight. Seven days since he's been warm. Seven days since anything has passed his lips besides water.

That last one worries him the most, though the others bother him still. He knows he wouldn't get that one concession if it wasn't for the fact that he needed it to live. He'll need food eventually too, but not yet—a fact that his 'host', like Shawn, is quite aware of.

Someone—he has a sneaking suspicion that it was a cartoon character, though with the loss of mental acuity to go with his hunger, he's not positive—once said 'You'd be surprised what you can live through.'

Whoever it was that had managed to sneak up on him and hit him over the head with... whatever that had been—something heavy and hard was all Shawn was really sure of... a wrench? No, it was thicker than that.

Maybe a pipe wrench?

Anyway, whatever his unknown assailant had used, it had landed him here where it seemed said assailant was testing that theory of being able to survive a lot more than expected. Or maybe they're just trying to save themselves trouble. After all, he's in no condition to fight back or try to escape. Determination will only carry him so far and he's pretty sure that right now it would only carry him back down to the ground if he tried to stand up.

But he knows that people are looking for him.

And even though he's never said it, he trusts them to come through in the clutch and save his life. A good thing too, considering his current predicament.

So he's saving his strength. Because even if he trusts them to find him, there's some uncertainty on when.

He really expected them before this.

But they _will_ come, however long it takes. So he'll focus what little energy and determination he has on still being here when they do arrive. And then, for taking so long, he's going to demand a trip to the closest all you can eat buffet.

They want his statement they can get it over prime rib, mashed potatoes, corn, stuffing, pie—apple, blueberry, pumpkin, _and_ cherry...

He licks his lips at the thought of all that food. His stomach clenches painfully at the emptiness it contains.

Perhaps not the best train of thought right now.

He forces his mind to other topics, mostly the faces he hopes to see over that feast.

Juliet. Gus. His dad. Lassie. Juliet.

Wait... he mentioned her already, didn't he?

His brow furrows as he tries to think. It's getting harder with each passing minute.

Then he hears a sound that makes him cringe, despite his attempt to repress it.

The door opens and footsteps enter his prison.

"Hello, Shawn," a silky voice says. "Time for another photo. Wouldn't want them to declare you dead and give up the hunt, now would we?"

Shawn can't respond, of course, with the duct tape sealing his lips closed. Probably for the best.

The open door has brought with it some fresh air from outside his little cell and it's full of the torturous aromas of what has to be one heck of a meal. He swallows the whimper—and the mouthful of saliva—that the delicious scents prompt and tries to focus on using the one other sense he currently has available to him—his ears.

Clothing rustling, the approach of his captor—from which he flinches, as much as it embarrasses him—and then hands on his arms manhandle him into a sitting position and prop him up. A newspaper is set in his lap and then the presence withdraws. A click of a shutter and the newspaper is removed.

"Until later, Shawn," the voice says. "Right now I have a dinner appointment I just can't miss."

Shawn swallows again and he knows that his captor saw it because a soft, chilling laugh accompanies the retreating footsteps and the shutting door. Shawn waits only a few seconds before exerting just enough of a twitch to send himself toppling onto his side again.

He closes his eyes behind the blindfold and returns to his thoughts of that first meal after being rescued.

* * *

I have nothing to say after this, except to remind you that killing me, while temporarily satisfying, will guarantee there is never any more to this. Keep that in mind when you're planning the lynch mob. :D


	16. Prompt 46 Family

Random. Kinda fluffy. Hopefully fun for the kids. Enjoy!

* * *

He didn't choose his first, the one he was born into.

Shawn is painfully aware of this fact every time he speaks to his father and is reminded, yet again, of how impossible it is to ever live up to the lofty expectations and ideals of the Spencer patriarch. It's not something he can change, so he deals with it the best he can.

He didn't choose his second, the one fate pushed him into.

Shawn never expected to think of them that way, especially with how it all came together thanks to his lies and deceit, though he can't deny that's what they are to him. It's not something he wants to change, so he works with it to make it the best he can.

He _did_ choose his third, the one he married into.

Shawn has only dreamed of finding something this perfect in his life, and more often than not he wonders how he came to be so lucky as to convince her to marry him. It's something he wouldn't change for the world, so he gives it everything he's got because it has to be the best thing that's ever happened to him.

* * *

Review, please and thanks!


	17. Prompt 24 No Time

**WARNING: TEAR JERKER**

Okay, before anyone makes plans to kill me for this one, I should tell you that it's the first of a three-story arc and parts two and three are the next two chapters. If you still want to kill me then, you're welcome to try. I should warn you though that I'm a big believer in ninjas and the fifth amendment.

Wait... that's not the 'right to bear arms' one, is it? Oh well. I still support it.

And the others.

...

I'll shut up now. :D

Oh and this is most definitely Shules. You've been warned.

* * *

How had this happened?

He didn't understand and it hurt as much or more than the hole in his side through which his blood was pumping out with every beat of his heart. There was a hand holding a cloth to it, but it wasn't going to be enough.

How he wished it could be enough.

"Juliet," he breathed.

"Shhh," she murmured, leaning over him. Gentle hands cradled his face and brushed the sopping wet hair back from his forehead. "It's okay, Shawn. You're going to be okay."

He wanted to believe her. He did.

But he couldn't.

Besides the fact that he could feel her warm tears dripping softly on his face along with the cold rain and hadn't missed the catch in her voice, he could feel himself drifting away. He didn't want to. He wanted to stay here, with her... but he didn't have that kind of time.

Sucking in a breath and forcing away the pain that it caused, he brought a hand up to cover the one she was using to cup his cheek.

He didn't have nearly enough time to tell her everything he wanted to say and it was his own fault.

He'd put it off, let foolish fears and stupid pride get in the way of the greatest opportunity that had ever laid knuckles to his proverbial door... and now he was regretting it. Not for very long, but still.

"Juliet, I—" he started.

"Shhh," she soothed, moving the fingers in his hair down to lightly press the them against his lips. "Don't Shawn. You're going to be okay. Don't say it now." She sniffed and closed her eyes, more tears falling to bathe his face. "Please wait."

He didn't want to waste this last chance, but he couldn't bring himself to deny her wish. So instead he simply kissed her fingertips.

"Later," he promised, knowing it was a lie.

There wouldn't be a chance later._ He_ wouldn't be around later.

A soft sob escaped her as she leaned down to rest her forehead against his. He took comfort from the fact that she was here at least. He didn't want to be alone right now.

"Thank you," he exhaled in a voice she could barely hear.

She sniffled wetly and asked just as softly, "For what?"

"For being here," he managed, desperately trying to hold on. "And..."

Just a few seconds longer.

He only needed a few seconds...

"Shawn?"

Her voice was far away now, though he was pretty sure she hadn't moved.

"Shawn?" she said again, and he could hear the panic in her voice.

He wanted to answer her.

He wanted to tell her not to worry.

He wanted to tell her he loved her.

He wanted to tell her so much.

But he couldn't.

There was just no time.

* * *

Review, please and thanks!


	18. Prompt 93 Give Up

Part two of three, continuing chapter seventeen's arc. Shules implied. Gonna keep the **WARNING: TEAR JERKER** too.

Just because. :D

* * *

She won't give up on him.

Despite what the doctors are saying and the way everyone else seems to be preparing themselves for the inevitable, she won't. He hasn't given up on himself after all.

He tried to, on the floor of that cold warehouse, the rain coming in through the open door to drench them both. She could see it in his eyes, and she knew that it was the reason behind the confession he tried to make. She didn't let him because she knew that it would be as good as granting him permission to abandon her.

And she wasn't nearly ready to do that.

Even though they both knew what he was going to say, she'd cut him off. She made him promise he would tell her later and she was going to hold him to that promise.

As she stares through the window into the room he's currently occupying in the ICU, she reminds herself that later is still a definite possibility. He's still here. He hasn't given up.

And neither will she.

* * *

So he's not dead.

Yet. :)

Tell me who you love!

No, rly. Leave me a review and tell me who you love. Doesn't even have to be me. I'm just nosy and weird like that. :D Or you can just review. Either one works for me. ;D


	19. Prompt 7 Heaven

And now the conclusion...

* * *

His first conscious thought is that he's very confused.

This isn't Hell.

Besides a firm belief that he wasn't so bad in life as to be a qualifier for that particular destination, it's not nearly warm enough. In fact it's just a bit on the chilly side. Also, he's pretty sure they don't have heart monitors in Hell.

Which rules out Heaven, too.

Actually, it rules out the whole idea of being dead. That comes as something of a relief. He thinks it would be more of one if not for the drugs he can feel diluting his blood and muddling his thoughts.

Vague curiosity at how exactly he survived floats through his head, but it drifts out of reach before he can really grab hold of it.

He hears something besides the heart monitor and realizes that it's a voice. Juliet's, to be specific.

A shot of natural, brain-baked drugs—namely some good old endorphines with a dash of adrenaline for spice and a step closer to lucidity—mixes with the man-made ones that are trying to send him back to sleep and he can feel his lips curve ever so slightly up into a smile as his side starts to win the battle.

It takes a moment but this does not go unnoticed by his lovely companion. He knows this because a smallish hand slips into his and squeezes as a shadow falls over his face and that same, wonderful voice says, "Shawn?"

He can't speak—can't even swallow properly at the moment, his mouth is so glued shut with the aftereffects of several days unconscious in the hospital—so he doesn't even try. But he has to give her some sign he heard...

So he puts every last ounce of energy and stubborn determination he has into opening his eyes. It takes a few tries, but she can see the effort he's making and so she keeps talking to him, encouraging him to not give up.

Finally he succeeds and, after a few moments, his vision clears enough that he can see her face. She smiles down at him and brushes a kiss over the knuckles of his hand that she picked up. A light happens to be strategically placed behind her head in such a way that it gives her a distinct halo.

Later he'll blame his next thoughts on the drugs, both natural and synthetic.

Juliet makes a very pretty guardian angel. Maybe this is heaven after all.

With that he lets his eyes drift shut, smile still firmly in place.

* * *

So, I really didn't mean to do this. The whole make-you-think-he's-dead-and-then-use-the-prompt-of-'Heaven'. Srsly I didn't. I don't regret that I did, but it may have unnecessarily freaked some of you out and for that I apologize.

Sort of. ;D

Review, please and thanks!


	20. Prompt 23 Cat

YAYZ! HAPPY PROMPT! \o/ And also, shamelessly Shules.

For those of you wondering, yes, it *was* pointed out to me that my only two genres in this challenge seems to be romance and angst. I'm working on that. Really I am.

But until then... happy reading! :D

* * *

She has two cats because she doesn't like an empty house.

That's what she tells everyone anyway.

She really has them because she knows that cats are excellent judges of character. And though she may be a detective—and a superb one at that—she is well aware that she tends to give people the benefit of the doubt.

Cats don't bother with such niceties. They either like you or they don't. And, unlike dogs, they're not easily bribed. Thus her cats are the final test a boyfriend-hoping-to-be-something-more must pass. If they don't like him, he's gone, no matter how she may feel about him. Her family thinks she's nuts, but she trusts her cats more than she trusts her own instincts. After all, it's only in their bests interests to pick a good guy for her. And cats are nothing if not masters of self-interest.

This is why she's never allowed him to come to her house.

Because she saw how he was with the little boy (girl) cat that Buzz now calls Smudge. She's pretty sure that her cats would be just as approving.

And she's just not sure she's ready for that yet.

* * *

Review, please and thanks!


	21. Prompt 96 In The Storm

So as part of my new resolution to expand my repertoire I mixed it up just a tidge this time: Angst *AND* Shules.

...

What do you mean I've already done that?

*eyeroll* Okay so NEXT chappie I'll try to mix it up. Happy now? ;D

* * *

She's afraid of storms.

Everyone has a deep, dark secret and that's hers.

It's why she moved to California. The climate is basically the same and the culture isn't so different as to make her feel out of place. The job is the job no matter where you live. And the crime rate isn't that different, really.

But California doesn't get storms like Florida. Specifically, it's the hurricanes that she hates. She survived a few in her time, but she never liked them. That much raw natural power showed her just how small and fragile a human being was. And it terrified her.

But even if she escaped the hurricanes, there are still storms.

The Pacific is still an ocean and all that empty space still allows some pretty big thunderheads to build up unchecked.

She huddles now, wrapped in a blanket in the dark on her couch, alone except for her cats—who are hiding under the bed, the little cowards—clutching a flashlight as she prays for the storm to end.

Another crash of thunder strikes and she bites back the shriek, squeezing her eyes shut and trying not to whimper.

She loses the battle against making a noise when something lands on her shoulder and startles her into jumping away.

"Whoa, Jules. It's me."

The voice is not something or someone she's expecting and she looks up in surprise, one arm still raised protectively over her head as she crouches on the floor in an undignified sprawl. She blinks at the dripping wet figure standing over her, confused as to where he came from.

"Shawn?" she says stupidly.

"Yeah," he says cautiously, as if afraid of scaring her again.

He slowly extends a hand and she stares at it for a moment, then takes it and allows him to pull her to her feet. She's still holding onto the flashlight like it's a lifeline, though the blanket has fallen off of one shoulder since she let it go.

She frees her hand and tugs it back up, then brushes nervously at her hair as she avoids eye contact. Mortified doesn't begin to cover how she's feeling right now.

"What—" she squeaks, flushing again at the sound. She clears her throat and tries again. "What are you doing here?"

He shrugs, relaxing from his formerly wary stance.

"Your neighborhood lost power," he explains. "And you don't like storms. So I thought I'd come see if you were okay."

She looks up in surprise at his casual mention of her fear. How had he—

Reading her mind once more, he taps a finger against his temple and half smiles.

"Oh. Right," she mumbles, her blush refreshing itself as she closes her eyes and silently berates herself.

She really hates storms. They don't just scare her, they mess with her head.

"Well, thank you for your concern. I'm fine though," she says. She isn't, but she'd rather be alone and scared than continue to embarrass herself with both her fear and her inability to function under the stress. "I just—"

She stops when he takes her hand and looks down at the point of contact.

"Juliet."

Her eyes are pulled up by his gentle, sympathetic tone.

"You're not fine. You're terrified. But that's okay. Everyone is afraid of something."

"You're not," she says before she can stop herself.

He chuckles and the warm sound melts some of the cold fear sitting heavily in her stomach.

"Sure I am."

She shakes her head. "No, you're not. You act like you're scared sometimes, but that's all it is. An act." She cocks her head. "A lot of things you do are an act, I suspect," she admits softly.

A moment of fear, genuine fear, flashes through his eyes and she blinks.

Was she wrong about him not being afraid of anything? She doesn't think so, but... Then he grins and the look is so completely gone that she begins to doubt she'd even seen it.

"Even I'm afraid of something."

"What?" she asks, though it's more curiosity than challenge.

He shrugs and looks down for a moment. "Sharp, pointy things for one."

Somehow she doubts that. Although she is sure she was wrong now.

He _is_ afraid of something. She just doesn't know what.

"So," he says, obviously trying to change the subject. "I weaseled the Psychmobile out of Gus. We can go somewhere with lights and electricity if you'd like."

Her eyes flick to the door and back, then drop to the floor, a surge of fear rising up at the thought of actually going out in that weather, but before she can make up an excuse he reads her mind for a third time.

"Or we can stay here."

"You don't have to stay," she protests. From the way his lips curve ever so slightly she can tell he isn't buying it any more than she is.

She doesn't want him to feel obligated to stay. And it's embarrassing to have him witness her weakness. But apparently her subconscious is more concerned with not being alone right now.

Even her conscious mind is beginning to come around to the idea that a storm with Shawn is a lot better than a storm without.

"It's no trouble. I don't have anywhere else I need to be right now. I'd just be at my place waiting out the storm." He shrugs again. "We might as well wait it out together."

Her eyes come up to meet his and she gives in with a small, shaky smile. "Might as well."

He returns the smile, then gives her hand a squeeze.

"I even brought distractions," he says and waves at the coffee table where she now sees a pizza box and a couple of DVDs from Blockbuster sit.

"But without power..."

He lets go of her hand to pick up the laptop computer case that's on the floor just out of sight.

"Gus let me borrow his extra batteries. We're good for at least three movies."

Her smile grows, the shakiness fading.

o.o

An hour later Juliet is snuggled under her blanket again, curled up against Shawn's side, his arm spread out over the back of the couch behind her. The laptop on the coffee table is playing _Ferris Bueller's Day Off_ and several pieces of pizza are missing.

Shawn laughs at the movie, the vibrations making her head bounce slightly, and her lips stretch into a smile.

She's still afraid of storms. She doesn't think that will change.

But she has a sneaking suspicion that, despite that, they just might become one of her favorite things.

* * *

Mmmm... warm and fuzzy is good for the soul. I wish *I* had a Shawn-pillow to snuggle up with on stormy days. :(

Ah well.

Review, please and thanks!


	22. Prompt 4 Dark

Okay. This one is kinda mixing things up. Karen made an appearance I wasn't expecting.

Also it's long. Very long. The longest I've ever written in present tense in fact. Which sucked. Because I kept switching back.

Anyway. Read it. Review it. Please. Thanks! :D

* * *

She used to like the dark. It was a safe place to hide.

Her friends all hated it because of the usual childhood fear that it was where monsters hid. She agreed with that, but not what it meant.

Sure it concealed the monsters, but it also concealed you. The monsters couldn't get you if they couldn't find you and they'd make noise if they came after you. The trick was using that to keep track of them and stay out of reach, while not making the same mistake so they could track you too.

That logic carried her through her entire childhood. She's an adult now and recent evidence has poked holes in it and she's beginning to doubt the validity of her theory.

She's in the dark and it's not the safe place it once was. She doesn't know how long a clock would say it's been, but it doesn't matter: Time is relative and for her it's been an eternity.

The worst part is the discovery that not all monsters make noise in the dark. And when they do and you can't move, can't get away, it's even worse. All you can do is wait for them to find you and hope that they'll leave again and not take your sanity with them.

The noises come again, echoing in the dark, hitting her and reflecting back at the one making them like a bat navigating in a cave, leading the monster to her. A wave of light washes over her, muted by the blindfold, and she clings to it, even if she knows it to be the harbinger of the monster.

Still she craves it, wishing it would stay.

She'd give anything for light right now, blinding, burning, glorious light. And then the light does return, fixing on her. Her breathing quickens as the light stays, wavering slightly in time with the footsteps that bring it closer, brightening with each step until she has to close her eyes against the pain it causes.

Something has changed, and, though she's not sure what, she can't help but allow a tiny seedling of hope to sprout. Then the light vanishes and her hope dies a swift death when it's gone. Her eyes close and the darkness is complete.

The feel of fingers tugging at her blindfold is so surprising that she jerks away in reflex. A hand comes to rest on her arm to steady her and in a flash she is consumed by anger, animalistic and primal. She lashes out, the bindings on her hands and feet forgotten, inconsequential.

She's not going to let the monster hurt her again. This time she will hurt _it_.

As she thrashes, kicking, hitting, screaming behind the gag that she's unaware is still in place, she makes contact and hears a cry of pain. Bloodlust and victory shoot through her veins in a flood that washes her away, drowning her in the heady feeling of triumph. She is instantly addicted and reacts the only way she can, seeking another hit, desperate to get it before this high fades.

She fights harder, fingers grasping at her foe, trying to cause more pain. But her brief moment of glory is past. Strong hands manage to grasp her arms and she is pushed back, slammed into the unforgiving surface of the cement floor that has been her bed, chair, and reality in this abyss.

She fights still, the caged beast fighting for freedom with every ounce of energy and fury it has.

Then the sounds that she's been hearing for the last few minutes penetrate the haze of rage and she stills in shock.

"CHIEF! KAREN! STOP!"

She doesn't yet recognize the voice speaking, but she realizes that she knows the words.

Sanity and her humanity washes over her like the shock waves of high explosive at close range, knocking her flat and leaving her dazed. She lays motionless and limp as the hands slowly relent in their punishing grip.

This time when she feels the brush of fingers at her temples tugging at the blindfold she does nothing more than flinch at the unaccustomed gentleness. It's pulled away and she blinks.

Panic claws at her throat and her whole body tenses when she still sees nothing but the darkness. She moves, trying to get up so she can go in search of the light, but the gentle hands return, steadying her.

"Hold on. It's okay. Just give me a second."

Her attempts to move become more frantic and then suddenly she's released, left adrift in the blackness and she whimpers. Logically she knows she's not alone, but terror is overcoming her sense of logic again and she reaches out, desperate for contact.

Then the flashlight from before is produced and her eyes lock onto the light and what it reveals. She blinks again, frozen in surprise, but it's not until the duct tape is carefully peeled away that she can make an attempt at speech, raspy and rough though it is. "Mr. Spencer?"

"It's okay, Chief," he soothes as he produces a pocketknife and goes to work on freeing her hands.

"How..." she starts, but she has no idea how to finish that thought. There are too many options.

"I had a vision of a meeting between you and Eidelman," he answers anyway. "When he disappeared shortly after you did, we dug a little further into his life and discovered this house that he inherited from his aunt that just happens to still be in her name." He broke the last few strands and unwound the rope.

"So where is Detective Lassiter?" she asks, rubbing at her wrists while he works on her ankles.

"He's... not here," Shawn admits hesitantly.

She frowns and allows him to help her sit up.

"Where is he?" she asks.

Shawn glances over his shoulder at a sound, then looks back at her when she repeats the question.

His voice is a mere whisper when he replies, "He's waiting for us back at the station."

Her brow furrows. She knows that her captivity, along with the hunger, thirst, and mental stress, has made her a little sluggish in her thinking, but this is just annoying. She's missing something big.

"Mr. Spencer—"

He shushes her when the sound repeats and she tenses in reflexive reaction and looks up at the ceiling, then back down at him.

"What is going on?"

Shawn hesitates, then stands, pulling her up and supporting her when her legs wobble from disuse. "I'll explain when we're out of here," he says and tugs on her hand to get her moving in the right direction.

"You'll explain now," she says and refuses to budge. Or tries to anyway. She doesn't quite succeed and almost ends up falling in the process.

Shawn catches her, making sure she's steady before letting her go completely. "It would really be better if we had this discussion _after _we're away from here."

And suddenly the pieces fall into place, her eyes widening as it hits her. "You came _alone_?"

He shoots her a mild glare and says indignantly, "Of course I didn't come alone!" There's a half second of a pause and she rolls her eyes because she knows what's coming. "I brought Gus. Speaking of which..."

He pulls a radio out of his back pocket. "Gus, you there?"

"_I'm here,_" comes back the reply. "_Even if I wish I wasn't. Did you find her?_"

"Yeah. She's okay." He glances at her again, giving her a quick once over, then adds, "Ish."

She levels a glare at him, but it's mild. She probably deserves his assessment if the way she feels is any indication.

"Are you ready with that distraction?"

"_Ready and waiting._"

"Then let 'er rip. We're more than ready to leave this place."

"_For the record, Shawn, I'm never agreeing to go _anywhere_ with you ever again."_

"Love you too, buddy. Is it going yet?"

"_It's going. Give it a second._"

While they wait for whatever it is to go, Shawn speaks. "Chief, I'm going to need to turn off the flashlight so he can't find us. But I know where I'm going. So follow me as close as you can and we'll be out of here in no time. Got it?"

Her eyes go down to the pathetic little light that she's so quickly grown attached to. She doesn't want to go back to the dark.

But she's got a chance to escape and she doesn't want to be caught either. She wants away from here and she wants it _now_.

Forcing steel into her tone and her spine, she nods. "Got it."

She almost doesn't see the smile that prompts or hear the soft, "Atta, girl."

Then there's a loud bang and suddenly the light is off and Shawn's hand takes hers. "Let's go," his voice says in the dark.

She pushes the thoughts of terror and the desire to curl up into a ball down and allows herself to be pulled along.

"Stairs," he warns after a few moments and she cautiously feels them out, then heads upwards.

What follows is a dizzying series of turns and short stretches of straightaways. She can vaguely sense that they're moving past things, furniture and such, but she can't see anything and it takes another conscious effort to push the fear down and keep going forward.

Finally they stop and a door is opened. A cool breeze and the smell of fresh air is her only clue that they're outside now. Her eyes go up but there must be a thick cloud bank because she can't see a single star. A voice sounds from somewhere to their right and she freezes.

That voice she recognizes immediately. It's the monster. And it's getting closer.

There's a jerk on her hand but she's unaware of anything but the knowledge that he's coming for her once more. She chokes on a scream of pure terror and whirls to run, no thought in her mind as to where she's going as long as it's away from _him_. But that same force that pulled on her hand is now keeping her from escaping and she lashes out to try to free herself.

She won't be caged again.

There's a muffled grunt and then she's overwhelmed, two strong arms wrapping around her like iron bands, one across her stomach, the other covering her mouth and pulling her head back against his shoulder.

She struggles and twists, but her captor just picks her up and keeps walking, trying his best to keep hold of her. She brings her leg forward and kicks back, hitting his shin and sending him to the ground with a barely stifled curse. She almost manages to get away, before she's tackled, crushed under the weight of her captor.

It's when her strength begins to wane that she realizes he's talking—and that she knows who he is.

"I don't know what's wrong, Gus. She just freaked. Whatever he did to her..." There's a pause and then, "I've got her pinned down, but I'm gonna need help to get her back to the car."

"_I'm on my way._"

She lays her head down on the soft dirt of the path and slowly inhales, trying to calm her racing heart and panicked mind.

"I'm okay now," she says after a moment.

"What?" he says, sounding surprised to hear her speak.

"I'm okay."

He slowly gets up and she does the same, though she doesn't go any further than her hands and knees. Squeezing her eyes shut she grits her teeth and tries to will away the fear and the fog and focus on what has to be done right here and now to escape. A hand comes to rest on her shoulder and she twists her head to look at him—despite still not being able to see him—before pushing back to sit on her heels.

"If you need a moment-" he says, sounding both knowingly sympathetic and embarrassingly uncomfortable at the same time.

She shakes her head, but she knows he can't see it so she just repeats, "I'm okay. I wish I could see but..."

She can practically hear him wince. "Sorry. We're still too close to the house."

"Yeah," she says softly and rubs at her arms, the chill both inside and out from fear and the breeze. "Let's go."

His hand finds her shoulder again and traces down to her hand, which he uses to help her back up.

They head off again, and she doesn't know how he can tell where they're going, but at the moment she doesn't really care. Lost is better than being back there.

An indeterminable amount of time passes before there are sounds ahead of them on the path. She tenses again and is quite happy to slow down and then stop while they wait to find out who it is.

There's a moment of pregnant silence, then a rather fake sounding whistle that might resemble a bird if one was mostly deaf.

"Gus?" Shawn hisses.

"Shawn?" comes the reply, then more footsteps, hesitant in their pattern. "Where are you?"

"Right here," Shawn says and the footsteps draw ever closer until someone bumps into Karen.

"Sorry."

"It's all right, Mr. Guster," she replies.

"Chief? Are you okay?"

"I will be. Are we far enough away to use flashlights yet?"

"No," Shawn says. "Another twenty-five feet and we'll be around the bend in the road. Then we'll be out of sight of the cabin."

"Then let's go," she suggests.

"You are insane, Shawn," Gus says as they continue on. "This whole thing was insane. And stupid."

"If it's stupid but it works it's not stupid," Shawn shoots back. "And I'm sure Chief appreciates our willingness to go out on a limb."

"I'd appreciate it more if you'd brought back up. What were you _thinking_ coming out here alone?"

If there had been any light at all she knows she'd be seeing them exchanging a look.

"Time was running out and we didn't have any to spare for bureaucratic bull," Shawn says finally. "There were issues with securing the warrant."

"Issues?" she repeats.

"What he means is," Gus explains, "his _vision_ wasn't enough to sell the idea that Eidelman was responsible. And what _that_ means is that he had an airtight alibi for the time of your disappearance and his absence up until this afternoon."

"So all you really had was the vague possibility of my being here," she clarifies. "And if I hadn't been?"

Shawn shrugged. "Then he would have never known the difference."

A tug on her hand stops her and she wonders what's going on now, when suddenly the light from the flashlight appears. Without even consciously considering it she takes a step closer.

"We should be able to move faster now that we can see," Shawn says. "And the car isn't that much further-"

A yell of frustrated fury rings out from further up the road they'd just traveled and all three of them freeze, then turn to look.

"We should go," Shawn says and as one they all start moving.

They cover the ground to the little blue car with all the speed they're capable of and it's with much relief that Karen climbs into the backseat and collapses across the seat. Soon they're speeding down the mountain as Gus and Shawn banter happily about the night's work, and for the first time in she doesn't know how long she's comfortable with the idea of drifting off to sleep.

But before she does...

"For the record, Mr. Spencer, Mr. Guster, as the chief of police I am not pleased with you for taking this risk in relation to your own safety." The talking has died and she hears the minute sounds of uncomfortable shifting. "However, as a human being and a kidnapping victim... Thanks."

"Anytime, Chief," Shawn says, his smile easily coming through in his tone.

"One more thing..."

"Yes?" Gus asks.

"Where did you put that flashlight?"

"Right here," Shawn says and hands it back to her.

She flicks it on, smiling as the light fills the tiny backseat of the car.

"Wake me when we get to the station," she says and then gives in and lets the darkness take her.

* * *

So.

Erm.

Yeah.

Review please and thanks. :D


	23. Prompt 17 Blood

You'd think, being Shawn Spencer's friend, that he'd eventually get used to it.

And when it comes to minor and superficial injuries he supposes he has. Enough to be able to administer first aid anyway.

But Shawn's moved up to the next level in the injury department since he became a 'psychic detective'.

And Gus isn't sure his gag reflex is capable of keeping up.

When he arrives at the scene of Shawn's latest foray into the dangerous world of muddy legalities that embody his career in the supernatural private investigator field, he only takes one look and has to run back outside to avoid leaving a stain on the carpet.

Not that Shawn hasn't already done a bang up job on that.

But if Gus doesn't puke there, he can push the cost of the carpet replacement off on his friend with only a small twinge of guilt.

* * *

Review please and thanks. :D


	24. Prompt 21 Vacation

Vacations were never really his thing. Criminals don't stop to take a break—at least, not all at once—so why should he?

He's just never been that good at 'turning it off'.

Sometimes, in his more introspective moments, he thinks that taking one every once in a while would have helped his marriage. Especially if he'd been able to concentrate on something other than the cases he left behind.

But really, that's asking a lot. He just isn't that kind of person.

However, as he watches Spencer stand on his desk and do an alarmingly spirited cheer under the supposed ghostly influence of the cheerleader who was strangled behind the bleachers last Friday night, he thinks that maybe it's time he tried again.

Because honestly—he thinks as he's forced to use his lightning fast reflexes to rescue his Academy coffee mug when Shawn's 'vision' gets a little out of hand—if he doesn't get away from here for a little while he's going to finally make good on that threat to shoot Spencer.

O'Hara would never forgive him, even if it was only a flesh wound.

He doesn't have the patience to train a new partner, especially when the one he has right now is actually starting to show some real potential. As long as one discounts her faulty character judging skills and poorly concealed affection where the thorn in his side is concerned, that is.

By the time the show is over and Spencer has collapsed in a chair, panting, looking faint, and generally milking the previously mentioned affection that O'Hara has for him, his mind is made up.

He's taking a vacation and he's taking it far, far away from here.

* * *

Review please and thanks. :D


	25. Prompt 69 Annoyance

Another 3 part arc. Enjoy. :)

* * *

*pop*

*pop*

*pop*

*pop*

Lassiter continued working, to the untrained eye completely oblivious to the sound being made at an excruciatingly precise rate. He had no idea what was on the papers in front of him. The highlights and underlines were totally at random.

But he couldn't betray a hint of weakness. Failure was not an option.

o.o

*pop*

*pop*

*pop*

*pop*

Shawn could see the signs of irritation, the building tension, the developing twitch of the left eye that was masked a moment later by regular, deliberate blinks. The noise was beginning to grate on his own nerves, but he refused to give in until he had won or until he ran out of bubbles.

Good thing he'd gotten the extra large box. It might take him all 50 square feet before victory was his, but he'd be here for the very last one if that's what it took.

o.o

*pop*

*pop*

*pop*

*pop*

"How long is he going to do that?" Juliet asked through gritted teeth.

"Until Lassiter cracks or he runs out of bubbles. Or the shift ends and Lassiter goes home."

Juliet glanced at her clock and back at the sheet of bubbles. At the rate he was going end of shift would be here long before he ran out of ammunition.

And with Lassiter on desk duty after tearing his ACL in pursuit of a suspect, there was no chance of a call to go out into the field mercifully intervening.

"Six more hours," she muttered as she tried to focus on her own paperwork. "I can handle that."

Gus shook his head. "You do not want that to be the way this ends."

"Why not?" she asked, brow furrowing. "You think an explosion of anger and possible discharge of a service weapon would be better?"

Gus shook his head. "I'm saying that none of the solutions are good. But end of shift is the worst."

"Why?"

"Because Shawn will have a chance to restock before tomorrow."

Juliet's gaze unfocused as the horror of that washed over her.

She couldn't take another day of this. She wasn't sure she could take another hour, but she _knew_ she couldn't take another day. She didn't want Shawn to be shot either, especially at the hands of her partner.

She swallowed a whimper and turned her gaze to Gus. There had to be another way.

"What's option four?"

Gus pulled his gaze away from the throbbing vein in Lassiter's forehead and frowned.

"What?"

"What's option four?"

"There is no option four. Shawn will keep doing this until he runs out of bubbles or the shift ends—in which case he'll go get more—or Lassiter reacts. Those are all the options there are."

"I refuse to believe that. There has to be another way."

"There isn't. Look, Juliet, I understand your problem. I've been dealing with it for thirty years now. I've never found another way. There just isn't an option four."

Juliet's eyes went back to the two men across the open hall.

Flicking back and forth, she considered all the variables, searching for the one that had been missed.

Shawn continued to pop bubbles, but his eyes strayed from Lassiter as if he felt her watching him. He grinned roguishly and winked, but the popping never faltered as he went back to observing his prey.

And suddenly she knew what option four was.

"I've got it."

"What?" Gus demanded, dropping his magazine into his lap. "You can't. There is no option four."

Juliet opened her desk drawn and pulled out her purse, then stood. "Don't feel bad, Gus. You never found option four because option four didn't exist. But it does now."

Gus stared at her until she vanished from sight, then shook his head and went back to her magazine.

There was no option four, but she'd never believe him. She'd just have to figure it out on her own.

* * *

Review please and thanks. :D


	26. Prompt 63 Do Not Disturb

What is Juliet's master plan? Will Lassiter be able to hold out until she can put it into motion? And will Shawn survive to see another dawn?

Read on and find out... :D

* * *

She returned a mere three minutes later and everyone in the bullpen knew it because the sound of bubbles popping one by one suddenly became a rapid-fire burst before stopping altogether.

Since Lassiter hadn't been the only one who was acutely aware of the sound all eyes came up to search for the source of their salvation. Most dropped again in amusement when they spotted her.

Hair let loose from the clip holding it up, makeup freshened and enhanced—including pale natural lipstick exchanged for an eye-catching shade of red—and jacket unbuttoned to reveal more of her magenta dress shirt, Juliet's revised appearance was an attention-getter all by itself.

But the cocked eyebrow, half smile, and beckoning finger to go with her distinctly unprofessional posture meant that even a blind man was likely to react.

Shawn Spencer wasn't blind by anyone's measurements.

Those who hadn't studiously returned their eyes to their previous tasks looked to Shawn in time to catch a rather pronounced bobbing of his Adam's apple. Then he cocked his head and arched an eyebrow in query.

Juliet's smile just widened and she turned, casting one last glance over her shoulder before sauntering away towards the front doors, a definite sway to her hips that she didn't normally employ when walking.

She paused for a moment at the front desk to ask something of Sergeant Allen and was rewarded with a set of keys a moment later.

She glanced back at Shawn—who'd abandoned his bubble wrap and walked his chair over to where he could keep an eye on her—and smiled again, the corner of her tongue peeking out between her teeth.

Shawn's Adam's apple made another quick bounce.

Giving the keys a little jingle that could be heard throughout the bullpen she turned and headed down the stairs.

Shawn looked around the room, head swiveling back and forth rapidly, but everyone was looking at their work when his eyes came their way.

Except for Gus and Lassiter who were both staring the direction Juliet had gone. The former muttered something that sounded rather impressed and possibly profane under his breath; the latter was just staring in shock at his partner's unorthodox and completely unexpected behavior.

Shawn's eyes went once more to the bubble wrap, but there was really no contest. He bolted out of the chair and down the hall so fast that his chair was left spinning behind him.

Gus and Lassiter exchanged a look, but neither one made any indication they were going to go after him.

Juliet was a big girl.

And it meant the end of the bubble popping.

"McNabb," Lassiter called.

"Yes, sir?"

"Get rid of that bubble wrap. Now. And if it comes back I'll personally make sure that you spend the rest of your career writing parking tickets. Understood?"

Buzz nodded rapidly. "Yes, sir."

The blessed normal hum of noise resumed within a minute or so, though more than a few people were wondering about the fact that O'Hara and Spencer were gone—and more importantly how long that would last.

And when a rhythmic clinking sounded a few minutes later, all eyes moved to the source, one smugly grinning Juliet ascending the stairs, the key ring swinging from her fingertips.

She paused at the front desk to return them with a smile and few words, then returned to her desk, her hair once more in order, her makeup restored to the previous basic look, and her jacket buttoned again.

She sat down at her desk, opened the folder in front of her, and began to read.

This lasted all of two minutes before Gus had to ask, "Where's Shawn?"

Juliet's smile widened, though her eyes stayed on her reading. "Handcuffed to a shelf down in the evidence locker. Fifteen minutes after Lassiter and I have left Sergeant Allen will escort you down to retrieve him."

Gus stared at her until she looked up, an impish light dancing in her eyes.

"I told you there was an option four."

Gus stood and nodded deferentially to her.

"I admit defeat. You have my respect and my gratitude. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a route to finish. I'll be back at seven."

Juliet watched him walk away for a few steps, then said, "Our shift ends at six."

"I know," Gus said without even slowing down.

Juliet shook her head and then glanced at her partner. He was regarding her with a look that said he'd never expected something so devious from her. He, too, tipped his head in acknowledgment, then went back to his work.

At her desk, Juliet just smiled.

* * *

Review please and thanks. :D


	27. Prompt 99 Solitude

And now, the conclusion...

* * *

Down in the basement of the Santa Barbara Police Department, in the evidence vault, in the dark, Shawn sat next to the shelf he'd been handcuffed to.

The shock of being tricked, of being so throughly deceived, by sweet, innocent Juliet was beginning to wear off.

From the look on her face right before she shut the door, he fully expected to be left here for several hours, probably until after her shift was over, though he knew, devious or not, her conscience would never allow her to leave him here overnight.

He grinned and settled more comfortably against the shelf.

That left him six hours to make his plans...

* * *

I know, I know. Continue it or else, pitchforks, torches, lynch mobs, etc, etc. Sorry. That's all there is. :)

Review please and thanks.


	28. Prompt 45 Illusion

This is SOOOOOOO mixing things up. Although I"m not sure what category I'd put it in...

But yeah, it's different. :)

* * *

Some say that reality is only a collective hunch. Others will tell you that reality is what you make of it.

And a few of those people will tell you that if you talk about something enough you can give it a sort of existence. Kind of like a ghost, only without someone dying first.

If she was aware of that last theory, it would answer a lot of her questions.

She's been in an accident, one that left her with a broken leg and required an emergency vet visit. It was a desperate bid for attention—and a convenient cover story for Gus and Shawn.

She's run away. That was another bid for attention/cover story. It didn't work any better than the first.

She's going to be pregnant soon—though who the father is is anyone's guess. It's not even clear who she's married to, though apparently the ceremony was in Boston.

She's more popular at Central Coast Pharmaceuticals than Gus, despite never having been in the building or met any of the people who work there.

She's got a deep-seated jealousy for a little boy cat (who is really a little girl cat)—though everyone thinks that's Gus.

And she's got a broken heart because no one even knows she's there.

* * *

So Mrs. Pickles made her _Snapshots_ debut. HAH! Betcha didn't see *THAT* one coming.

Review please and thanks.


	29. Prompt 65 Horror

OKAY, NO CLUE WHERE THIS CAME FROM. SRSLY.

Now that I've made that cryptic and ominous statement, enjoy! :D

* * *

He knocked on the door before taking a single step into the room. "Chief, you wanted to see me?"

She looked up from her work—which looked alarmingly like packing her things up—and smiled.

"Not 'Chief' anymore, Carlton" she said. "Just Karen."

He blinked in surprise and straightened from where he'd been leaning against the jamb.

"What happened? Is this about the Mazelli case? Because I'm telling you, we would have caught him faster if it weren't for Spencer's interference and—"

"Whoa, hold up," she said, raising a hand, palm out to stem the tide of words rushing at her. "Wait just a moment. Take a deep breath, Carlton. This is not about the Mazelli case."

"Oh." He frowned. "Then what is it about?"

She shrugged as she tucked a picture in a box full of papers and files. "I've been thinking about this for a while actually. With Iris getting older and getting ready to start kindergarten in the fall..." She looked up and met his gaze squarely. "I've reevaluated my life and decided that being a mother is more important to me than being a cop or the chief of police."

"Oh." Repetitive, but... well what was he supposed to say to that? Really?

She half smiled and resumed her packing. "Besides, I'm confident that I'm leaving the department in good hands. O'Hara's coming along nicely as a detective in her own right. She'll probably be ready to pick up a junior partner of her own here soon. Don't you think?"

"Well, that's... I mean, she has come really far since she arrived here, but..." He blinked and realized what was going on. And immediately wondered how he hadn't seen it before.

This was about her replacement.

And, really, who was more qualified than the Head Detective to step up as the new Chief of Police?

"Yes," he said with renewed confidence and sincerity. "She _will_ need a junior partner soon. McNabb's showing some promise. If he can be persuaded to take the detective's exam, he'd make a good junior partner for her. If O'Hara can handle being the tough cop, that is..."

Karen smiled and taped another box shut. "See? I knew it would all work out. Be sure to give your recommendations to the new chief."

Carlton blinked, his mental assessment of the office and how he'd rearrange it grinding to a jarring halt.

"Excuse me?" he said before he really had a chance to think about it.

She glanced up, but continued packing the next box.

"The new chief of police? The one that's going to take my place?"

"Right. Of course." He waited a beat then asked in with a painfully casual tone, "I don't suppose you know who that's going to be?"

"Yep," she said as she placed a stack of books in a box. "And he's the best they could have chosen. Just what this department needs."

"That's good." There was another pause and then, "When is he supposed to be here?"

Karen looked past him and smiled. "He's just arrived," she said and nodded at the bullpen behind him.

He turned but didn't see any faces that didn't belong. Well, besides Spencer, but—

That train of thought stopped dead in its tracks when Karen breezed past and walked straight towards the psychic.

"Shawn, good to see you. I'm just packing up the last of my things. The furniture will be moved out tomorrow morning and you can start moving your things in the afternoon."

"Excellent!" Shawn said, clapping his hands and rubbing them together as he approached. He stopped when he saw Carlton and that manic, cheshire-cat-on-meth grin of his appeared. "Lassiter! Come to greet the new Chief, eh? You didn't have to. Really."

"Spuh— Spuh—"

Who was making that ridiculous babbling noise? Oh crap. That was _him_.

He quickly shut his mouth, but not before a whimper escaped. Oh no. He did _not_ just do that.

Slapping a hand over his mouth to prevent any further embarrassing noises, he backed up.

Shawn and Karen both gave him odd looks.

"Lassiter? You okay?" Shawn asked.

"Carlton? What is it? What's wrong?"

He hit the desk and had to stop. But he didn't dare speak or even open his mouth.

How could this have happened? What was going on? He closed his eyes and swallowed the panic trying to claw its way up his esophagus.

There was a rational explanation for this. It was a joke. A cruel prank. Any second now he was going to open his eyes and they'd both say, "SURPRISE!" and they'd all laugh together.

He hoped his didn't sound too hysterical, but he couldn't _not_ laugh. He had to laugh. And he had to do so normally lest the words 'psychological evaluation' surface in Karen's mind.

Okay. On the count of three. One. Two—

"Shawn? Karen? What's going- Carlton? Are you okay?"

Sweet mother of Miranda, O'Hara had shown up. Now he really had to make the laugh sound normal. She'd worry about him and nag him to open up about his feelings if he didn't.

"Is he okay?" she asked.

"I don't know," Shawn said. "He seems to be having some difficulty, but he won't tell us what's going on. Maybe he choked on something?"

"He wasn't eating anything that I saw," Karen added. "But maybe..."

"Lassiter?" Shawn asked. "Can you breathe? Nod if you can breathe."

He wanted to restart the count but he didn't have that kind of time. They were going to call an ambulance or—heaven forbid—try the Heimlich on him if he didn't do something.

He didn't think he could handle anything resembling a hug or even basic contact with Spencer at the moment.

He needed to be in control and he needed it _now_. So he mentally clamped down on his fear, sucked in a breath, and dropped his hand as he opened his eyes.

He looked at Karen first. She was obviously a little concerned, but her expression didn't quite say 'psychiatric evaluation'. That was good.

His eyes shifted to Shawn. Okay, no smile threatening to break free or mischievous gleam in his eye, but he'd seen how fast that could change.

Then he looked to O'Hara. She was regarding him with concern as she sipped on a smoothie, the hand not occupied with holding her drink resting on her bulging stomach. Her gaze focused inward suddenly as she jumped slightly. "Oh, Shawn. I just felt it! I felt a kick!"

That immediately distracted the psychic who turned to look at her grinning. "Really?"

"Yeah!" she said and grabbed his hand, bringing to to where hers had been. "Feel it? Right there?"

His expression managed to brighten further. "Holy shi-tzu!"

He suddenly dropped to one knee and placed a gentle kiss over the spot. "Hey there," he said softly. "It's your daddy. Be nice to mommy. No kicking too much, okay, little guy?"

Juliet giggled and even Karen was smiling mistily at the two of them. Then she looked at him.

"Aren't they just so cute?" she asked.

That was when his legs gave out and he felt the distinct sensation of the ground rushing up at him, his head bouncing painfully off the edge of the desk as he went past it.

The vague notion of concerned voices and hurried actions permeated his fading consciousness, Karen crouching over him and asking if he was okay, Shawn's voice in the background saying, "That's your silly Uncle Carlton, Baby! Always falling down!" and Juliet wondering, "Has he had any alcohol today?"

He wanted to say that he hadn't had a drop—but if she was offering to get him something he'd take the strongest brain cell killer in the house—but before he had a chance everything faded to black.

o.o

_Please let it be a dream. Please, please, _please _let it all be a horrible dream—_nightmare.

Just let it be a nightmare and he'd... be really nice to O'Hara or something._ PLEASE._

"—Said it's only a mild concussion, though they want to keep him overnight for observation."

Speaking of O'Hara... She didn't sound pregnant, though really, how exactly that would differ from normal speech, he wasn't sure.

"But he's going to be okay, right? I mean, when he hit his head—"

And there was Spencer. Not his top choice for visitor at the moment, but he wasn't exactly in a position to choose, now was he?

"I know," Juliet said. "It sounded bad. But the doctor said not to worry. He should be fine."

"That's good." There was a pause and then, "This smoothie is almost gone. Do you want the last sip?"

Lassiter tried not to wince at that. The presence of a smoothie was _not_ helping him right now. He needed it to be a nightmare.

And if it wasn't he needed drugs. Lots and lots of brain-melting drugs.

"I'm fine, Shawn," Juliet said wryly. "Thanks."

There was silence—except for the obnoxiously loud sound of the last few drops of smoothie being sucked noisily up through a straw—and he decided that now was as good a time as any to face reality again.

Although, he _really_ didn't want to. Putting it off wouldn't help though.

With more effort than he liked, but less than he expected, he pried open his eyes. Once they were open enough to see beyond his lashes clearly the rest of the way was fairly easy.

Especially since shock and dismay provided most of the impetus.

He made another one of those embarrassing whimpering sounds, but, really, what else was he supposed to do when faced with the sight that greeted him?

Shawn Spencer, dressed in the blues of a uniformed cop—complete with shiny badge and gun at his hip—had his arm around the waist of a very pregnant Juliet.

Lassiter's jaw dropped and an incoherent strangled sort of sound escaped. There might have even been a hint of a squeak, though he'd deny it to his dying day.

Why Shawn'd dressed up for the occasion of seeing him to the hospital, Lassiter didn't know, and honestly he wasn't sure he cared.

"Carlton?" Juliet said and started forward, before Shawn stopped her.

"Easy, there Jules. You're supposed to keep weight off of that ankle, remember?"

She rolled her eyes. "I think I can handle one step," she said. Reaching out to grip the rail on his bed, Juliet hopped forward, continuing to use the rail as a crutch as she stood there. Shawn frowned, but didn't protest further.

Instead he ran his hand through his hair, then loosened his tie and came to the other side of the bed, flopping down in the chair there. "How do you feel, Lassiter?"

"DON'T CALL ME THAT!" He immediately covered his face with a hand, wishing he was unconscious again.

Shawn and Juliet both stopped and then exchanged a look.

"What should I call you?" Shawn asked hesitantly.

"Lassie. Lassie-face. Carly. _Anything_ but Lassiter."

"Um. Ooo-kay." Another look was exchanged. "How do you feel... Lassie?" The look on his face suggested that it felt weird coming out of his mouth, but that was understandable under the circumstances.

Lassiter sighed wearily. "I'll survive. Was there something you needed..." He couldn't bring himself to call the younger man 'Chief' so he just let it trail off there. He'd blame it on the head injury if he had to.

"No," Shawn said, still eying the injured man with a frown. "I just... wanted to make sure you're okay. You hit your head pretty hard and I feel bad about that. I should have seen than third guy hiding behind the crates."

Lassiter frowned and let his hand slide down a little so he could see the other man.

"Crates? Third man?" He lowered his hand the rest of the way. "Spen— Ch— What are you talking about?"

Juliet frowned now, making a full set of matching expressions in the room.

"The sting operation at the warehouse," she said when Shawn gave her a look that clearly told her to explain.

"Warehouse?" Lassiter repeated. "But..." His eyes narrowed as he tried to figure out what was going on. He did have a vague notion of a sting operation at a warehouse...

He glanced at Juliet's stomach. But it didn't explain _that_. Or Spencer in uniform.

Juliet followed his gaze and then rolled her eyes. "Oh this." She bent over and reached under her shirt, causing Lassiter's eyes to widen again, then unhooked something and revealed a prosthetic stomach as it slid out from under her clothes. "_This_ is a last minute change that _someone_ thought would be a good idea." She tossed the fake tummy at Shawn who caught it.

"You went along with it," he said with a grin. "And it _did_ help support my back story."

Juliet shook her head, but there was enough of a curve to her lips to bely her annoyance.

"Why are you in uniform, Spencer?" Lassiter asked, feeling on more stable ground with every moment.

Shawn shrugged, slinging an arm over the back of his chair as he pushed off with a foot to swivel back and forth.

"That wasn't my idea. Chief thought it would make it more authentic." His grin widened. "The look on my dad's face was totally worth it. Man, I thought he was gonna follow your example and pass out. Only, without the ambush from the drug dealer."

"Oh." Lassiter exhaled a breath and let his muscles relax. "That's good. So you're still just a fake psychic playing at detective?"

Shawn laughed. "Yeah. No worries, Carly," he said, his eyes twinkling as the name rolled more easily from his tongue. "I borrowed the badge and the gun is empty. Your job is safe."

"Well, we should go," Juliet said. "We just wanted to make sure you were going to be okay."

"Yep," Shawn said as he stood and joined Juliet at the foot of the bed. "And you're scowling and you called me a fake psychic so I think it's safe to say you're good. Unless you need us to stay. Juliet can do a mean foot massage and I'm really good at attracting cute nurses to your room."

Juliet elbowed him and he flinched and rubbed at the injured spot. "Ow! What was that for?"

She glared and he pouted and Carlton swallowed the upsurge of bile and interrupted with a, "Thank you for your concern, Spencer. O'Hara. But I'm fine. And I'll heal a lot faster with you elsewhere."

"Aw, Lassie-face. That hurts me, right here," Shawn said placing a hand over his heart. "And also, here," he added and pointed to his elbow.

"Spencer—" Lassiter growled.

"Okay. Going. See you later," he said and it had just a hint of concerned sincerity that mixed well with the promise of mischief.

"Not if I can help it," Lassiter muttered.

Juliet smiled and patted his foot through the blanket.

"The doctor said even though they're releasing you tomorrow he doesn't want you driving so I'll be back to check you out. Sleep well."

He grunted and she accepted that as the grudging thanks it was and started to leave, once again using Shawn as a crutch.

"Hey, O'Hara," he called.

They stopped and looked back.

"What happened to your ankle?"

Shawn grinned. "Flying tackle that took down your bludgeoner," he explained. "Dude, you should have seen it."

Juliet blushed and cleared her throat. "It wasn't that impressive," she said. "Really. Especially since this is from when I tripped in my _attempt_ to tackle him."

Shawn nodded and mouthed, 'Awesome!'

She slugged him and he flinched again and Lassiter rolled his eyes and waved a hand.

"Whatever. Thanks, I guess."

"You're welcome," Juliet said, still blushing.

"Night, Lassie," Shawn said and then the two of them left, still arguing about how impressive or embarrassing the maneuver had been.

Lassiter settled more comfortable in his bed and let his eyes drift shut, fully prepared to go back to sleep.

Hopefully this time it would be _without_ the nightmares.

* * *

Um. Yeah. Still no clue. But it was fun, ne?

Let me know in a review!

*nudgenudgehinthintwinkwink* ;D


	30. Prompt 62 Magic

Written in response to the annoying t-shirts that James wears that refuse to cooperate with us fangirls. This is the only answer I've been able to find to the maddening question of why they don't obey the laws of physics and gravity like they should.

* * *

For a guy who thinks he is the end all and be all of male perfection, he's surprisingly modest. She's not sure if it's annoying or endearing. Usually she'd say annoying.

There have been more than enough chances for him to 'accidentally' end up shirtless around her. But somehow...

Don't get her wrong. She doesn't want him constantly preening and acting like a brainless male model... but every once in a while she'd still like a chance to feast on what she's sure is some prime eye candy.

And the fact that he's so darn vigilant when it comes to keeping his upper body clothed... It only makes it worse.

Denial is the mother of rabid curiosity after all.

She thinks he might be doing it on purpose. He is supposed to be psychic after all.

Maybe he's read her thoughts and knows that this campaign of concealment is guaranteed to be more successful than the clichéd ploy used by guys around the world?

What she doesn't know is how he manages it so flawlessly.

Not only has he had plenty of excuses to take off his shirt, there have been more than a few instances where it shouldn't have mattered that he wanted to keep it on.

And yet somehow he manages to defy the very laws of physics. On those days, she suspects that psychic powers aren't all he can do.

It's got to be magic.

* * *

Review, please and thanks! :D


End file.
